For You
by Ink On Paper
Summary: A collection of oneshots and drabbles for, well, for you. All of you . . . . Second installment goes to M E Wofford.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I received a PM from tonyfan31970 wondering what would have happened in Agent Afloat when Gibbs walks in and interrupts Tony and Ziva's discussion ("But your eyes won't shut up." Yeah, _that _one.). Anyway, I was asked to maybe continue that scene (and holy cow was I so freaking flattered that someone actually thought, "Hey, maybe Kit could finish this up?" I mean, wow, totally made my day. Thank you, friend!) so I did. And I hope it doesn't disappoint, though it is a little angsty, but it is Tiva angst. So here you go, keep the peace and much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Characters courtesy of DB and CBS; idea courtesy of tonyfan31970; insanity brought to you by Kit (though that last part is not included in this particular fic -just in general).**

**Spoilers for Agent Afloat.**

Should Have Been

_Written for **tonyfan31970**_

_"Something you left behind, maybe? Or someone?"_

"Ziva."

She does not want to turn around, does not want to face the inevitable questioning that is long overdue. The temptation to feign not-hearing is nearly overwhelming in its appeal, but she finds herself stopping, turning, meeting the familiar gaze of her partner as he strides toward her, with both leisure and purpose in his stride.

"Hey," he says, coming to fall into step with her just as she begins walking once more, after finally convincing her legs to cooperate with her mind.

"Hello," she replies smoothly, evasively almost, and she so hopes he is too tired to delve into it tonight. "You happy to go home, yes?"

"Immensely," he agrees with a sigh, "Not only am I going to take a shower that exceeds five minutes, but I get to sleep in a bed –an actual bed, not a cot on a shelf in a wall. And the floors won't rock when it rains! Oh yeah, I'm happy."

"Good." Benign in its simplicity, utterly neutral, unreadable. And he zones in on her like a hawk.

"Listen, back there on the _Seahawk_," he speaks uncertainly, before switching tactics, starting again with a deep breath, "I didn't mean-"

"It is fine," she assures him, interrupting with a warning in her eyes. "We don't need to talk about it."

He stops and, after a few steps without him, she stops too, turning to look at him quizzically, studying him with one brow arched perfectly. He shakes his head at her, his face guarded, less open. "We do need to talk about it, Ziva."

"Tony." Her voice frames his name in flashing orange lights and florescent caution tape.

"Why?"

She stares at him, now very confused with her patience nearly spent, glaring. "Why _what_?" she snaps and it's more defensive than genuine irk.

"Why?" he repeats, refusing to offer her an out.

"I-I do not know-" a pitiful deflection.

"Of course you know," he tells her, "I'm the one in the dark here." And there. And everywhere, really.

"Tony, I honestly have no idea what you are talking about-"

"You were the one that left, Ziva."

And there it is. Not an accusation in so many words, but a statement of utter and pure veracity that she cannot possibly refute. Because she is guilty of the non-charge. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

She licks her lips, struggles, ironically, against the fight-or-flight response in her that is so easily triggered. Forces herself to maintain eye contact, to keep still. "I had too," she tells him, and there's pleading in there somewhere, tainting her words with hesitance. How much should she say? "I-I couldn't stay . . . ."

He keeps his poker-face firmly in place, asking steadily, "Did you regret it?"

"No!" she cries, in indignation on her behalf as well as his.

"Do you think I regret it?" and mild incredulity has crept into his voice as his brow furrowed slightly.

"_No_." What is his problem? she wonders wildly, hands thrown half up in frustration.

"Then why did I wake up alone?" he asks softly, taking a step forward, but like two magnets of the same polarity, she steps backward, an unconscious repulsion of their endless tug and pull.

It is all too much and the day has been too long and she is too too tired, so she erupts in minor hysteria, to hell with it all, so he could just understand. "Because I could not stay! I could not stay because when you woke up, I wouldn't want to leave! You would have made me breakfast and we would have talked, joked about nothing in particular-" and she sees that scenario playing out in her head once more and she watches it play out across his eyes too. Gentler and, to her relief, calmer, she continues quietly, "-I would have kept on your dress shirt and it would have been so _right_. . . . Don't you see, Tony? I couldn't leave and know what could have been, know what we could have had. . . . We would have seen what was missing, Tony, and it would have made everything so much harder."

And it's hard enough.

He stands there silently, the will for confrontation leaching out of them both slowly. Then: "It would have worked out-"

She holds up one hand and his words die on his tongue as she begs, "Don't-"

"Ziva-" Please.

"No! I am sorry, Tony, but we cannot do this."

Nothingness until . . . .

"Orders," he says and she can't tell if that's a question or simply an acknowledgement so she doesn't respond. Blinking once, twice, he repeats, the trained investigator that he is, "You're under orders."

She will not accede nor refute this conjecture, turning her face away from him to prevent her eyes from spilling her secrets.

So she does what she's never been good at, and, with a "Good night, Tony" trailing in her wake, she retreats.

And he's thinking _déjà_ _vu_ as he watches her go.

* * *

**A/N2: I've titled this entire fic, For You, and my hopes are to fill it with prompts from you, my friends. So therefore, I extend the invitation to drop me a line with suggestions of what you'd like to see. Maybe just a word, or a challenge (100 word drabbles are awesome), maybe it was something someone said -or something someone should say. I would prefer it to be Tony/Ziva centered, but I can be persuaded to go beyond that . . . . . Just a thought that could potentially surprise us all, so drop me a line, if you want. Much love, Kit!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I've received tons of responses and am super excited to see where we can take this thing! So feel free to keep 'em coming and I'll do my best. Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

**Spoilers: Based loosely off Truth or Consequence, Reunion, and Good Cop Bad Cop (from which inspiration for this was derived courtesy of M E Wofford.)**

Watchman

_Written for the ever lovely M E Wofford_

He watches her more than he did before and it's both unsettling and, oddly, comforting.

And incredibly irritating.

It starts on the return trip to D.C. She's curled on the canvas seat, made herself impossibly small because small is familiar and small is safe, with her eyes screwed shut as she wills herself to sleep. And even with the last dregs of adrenaline creeping out of her bloodstream, she is still wide awake, hyper-alert, mercilessly conscious.

In her state of heightened awareness, she can feel eyes on her, watching her. And, yes, a visual has been kept on her constantly since their emergence from the camp, but this time the watchman's gaze is different. This time it's more . . . . intense. More magnified.

More Tony.

She opens her eyes to meet the steady stare of ocean green fixated on her. He seems to afraid to blink because if he does, she may just disappear. "Tony," she rasps in acknowledgement, inclining her head toward him by way of greeting.

By way of demanding, _"What the hell?"_

"Ziva," he replies, unperturbed, and that's it. Just her name. Nothing else.

Nothing else but that slightly disconcerting smile that ghosts across his lips. And she shuts her mouth and shuts her eyes and tries desperately to shut him out.

* * *

She isn't around him the first few weeks, preferring to keep to herself, try to regain her equilibrium, some semblance of normalcy. But since she isn't around him, isn't in his line of sight, he isn't able to look at her.

Until she arrives at NCIS and the elevator doors slide open with a ding and she's just standing there and McGee and DiNozzo are just standing there.

"Ziva," McGee greets, surprised but excited to see her. And she murmurs something in response, her attention divided between Tim's warm attempt at conversation and Tony's silence. It isn't a stony silence nor is it a wholly uncomfortable one. He's merely watching her, eyes unnaturally bright and mouth twitching upward slightly.

She says something mean to make him stop looking at her like that and it takes him a beat or two to volley back a proper response.

* * *

She's been reinstated and reacquainted with her desk and the comfortable familiarity of her chair. She does have to rearrange the drawers because whoever was keeping her seat warm mixed everything up, but she doesn't really care because she's back and it gives her hands something to do.

The change between now and a month ago is jarring, but she's adaptable and has always been because she never really had a choice to be anything but. And so she slips back into this life she adored like it was meant to be.

And yes she has to get used to this, being back and being wanted and being safer than she's been in a long while. She has to resettle into the life she'd left, into the job and the mundane tedium of the everyday. It hurts a bit that she has to relearn Gibbs and McGee and Abby, to regain their trust and reaffirm her ability to do her job.

And then there's Tony and she really doesn't know what to do about him. And his staring.

She supposes it will take some getting used to.

* * *

He's assigned her escort because McGee is somewhere else and fate finds this whole situation incredibly entertaining.

The past few weeks and he's gotten better, seems to be able to let her out of his sight for longer periods of time, no longer coming up with a fabricated excuse to return to the bullpen to confirm she's still sitting at her desk, typing in a search, calling on the phone, writing down information.

Today, though, he has regressed back to being her constant watch guard which is further irritating because she can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing.

Their standing in the elevator, waiting patiently for the trip between floors to conclude, when she finally asks, "What are you doing, Tony?"

His gaze shifts to meet hers in the silvery reflection provided by the elevator door and his head cocks to the side, contemplative. "I believe I am escorting you, Zee-vah," and it's the first time in a very long time that he's called her that, stretched out the syllables of her name in that lazy way of his.

"You are watching me like a vulture."

"Like a hawk," he corrects automatically, grinning slightly.

"So you admit it," she says, pleased with herself.

He shrugs a shoulder, replies casually, "I've missed an entire summer of irritating you, David. I've got a lot of catching up to do."

"I see," she deadpans, regretting that she even asked.

"How'm I doing so far?" he checks, teasing lilt filling the elevator car.

"Success," she assures him, staring pointedly at the opposite wall.

He surprises her with his sudden nearness a few moments later, the change in his voice obvious when he says, softer, "I'm just . . . . really glad you're back." And the sentiment is genuine and it coaxes a smile to her lips, shattering the frown that had taken up residence since this morning.

"Me too," she tells him earnestly, meeting his eyes. "Me too."

And he smiles in turn, nods in satisfaction as the elevator dings brightly.

And as she steps off into the squadroom, she realizes he's been watching her because, well, he's her partner. And he has her back.

He's always had her back.


End file.
